There was another interruption, and von Stalhein went on. "You want an example. Very well. Consider Luntz. What I suggested was an obvious precaution, yet you opposed it."
"But you had your way," argued a voice.
"After a struggle. And look at these drunken Mongolians. No attempt is made to control them. They are still being given unlimited vodka."
Again a voice was raised in protest, in an unknown language. On being translated, evidently for the speaker's benefit, it came to this; that the Mongolian guards would desert in a body if their drink was cut off.
Von Stalhein went on. "Ach, so! Very well. I warn you that if this state of affairs continues the whole thing will end in disaster. Already it may be too late to remedy the mischief already done, for that there has been a breach of security I am convinced by what happened this morning. Yet you do nothing. Lieutenant Vasilloff here reported that the men in the plane were Koreans. I don't believe it. It is assumed that they came this way by accident. I don't believe that, either. The aircraft was here for a purpose, and I know, and you should know, what that purpose was. I say it was making a reconnaissance of this area. I would even go so far as to make a guess at the name of the man who flew it."
At this point there were several interruptions, mostly of a scornful nature; but von Stalhein went on, raising his voice, now brittle with suppressed anger.
"You say it's impossible," he accused. "I say nothing is impossible to well-trained agents, and, as I know to my cost, with these Britain is well supplied. She has been at the game for a long time and knows every trick. Rumour, if nothing more, of what is going on here has leaked through to the British Government, which, through its Foreign Office, has a way of solving mysteries. If. as I think, word has reached them, their first move would be to dispatch a man to investigate I suspect that man is here, and I know the one they would send. His name is Bigglesworth. It is just the sort of work on which he has specialised. If he is not already here, he will come, and yet you are content to go on as if nothing has happened. Even now he may be in this very—"
There was a chorus of incredulous exclamations.
"Very well. You will see," snapped von Stalhein, whose normal imperturbability was obviously being strained.
"Lieutenant Vasiloff shot down the plane and the men were brought in," said a voice.
"The men who were brought in were not those in the plane," declared von Stalhein. "A dolt could see that at a glance. They were common traders. Their story rings true and the contents of their packs confirm it. They are Koreans and they speak Korean. They brought in supplies of vodka and cartridges for this mad Cossack who lives in the marshes. Had my advice been taken he would have been liquidated long ago. Any man living there would be a menace and this one talks too much. He can do no good and he may do harm. The truth is, these drunken Mongolians are afraid of him. But let that pass. The two men who were in the plane got away. They must have got away or their bodies would have been there. They must be found."
Another voice broke in, and in it there was an element of doubt. "This reminds me of something," said the speaker. "According to Ming, at the end of the day's work there were two extra men in the gang. He mentioned this to me."
There was a brief silence. Then von Stalhein rasped: "Why was I not told of this at once?
What has been done about it?"
From excuses muttered in a surly voice it was fairly evident that nothing had been done about it.
Von Stalhein became brusque. "This is a matter that must be settled right away," he rapped out. "Prince, will you please give orders for all workmen to be mustered instantly.
Examine their mouths and you will find the two
extra men. They will be the men who were in the aeroplane, and one of them. I would wager, will be Bigglesworth. Bring them to me. I shall know them. Let this be done at once or I will not accept responsibility for the consequences. If they are no longer in the compound the country must be scoured until they are found. Put double guards on all places that matter."
Said another voice: "What is all this fuss about one man, even if his name is Bigglesworth? Are we to think you are afraid of him?"
"No," answered von Stalhein slowly. "I am not afraid, but I have a respect for his ability.
He is one of those men who, while others are talking, acts, and had he not been under the protection of the devil himself he would have been dead long ago. He is as hard to catch as an old fox, and as hard to hold as an eel. If he is about I am all the more relieved to know that Luntz is where he is."
Ginger frowned. This was the second reference to Luntz.
/ He wondered who and where he was.
"We are wasting time," went on von Stalhein. "The first thing to do, Prince, is to order Ming to examine the mouths of the workmen. You should find two with tongues. It shouldn't take long. We'll wait here."
There was a murmur of assent, and a scraping of chairs indicated a general move.
The anxiety, not to say consternation, with which Ginger had listened to von Stalhein's arguments, calls for little imagination; but before he could dwell on them Biggles had touched him on the arm and was gliding like a shadow along the wall of the house to the rear, from where he .made his way to the nearest trees. Ginger, of course, went with him.
They were only just in time, for without warning unsuspected lights over the front of the house were switched on, throwing the area of the door into clear relief. A group of men emerged, talking in low tones. One called loudly. The sentry answered and hurried to the door.
Ginger, from where he lay, could now see the men for the first time. Von Stalhein was there, a tall, soldierly figure, the usual cigarette in its long holder. There were two Chinese in national dress, one resplendent in the robes of a mandarin. The rest appeared to be nondescript European types in ordinary civilian clothes. The one nearest to Ginger was a thick-set, elderly man, with a broad, slab-like, impassive face. It was impossible to even make a guess at his nationality.
For a few minutes there was a good deal of activity. The big taskmaster, whose name apparently was Ming, arrived, complete with his whip and his gang, and after a short conversation with "Prince" Ling Soo, retired, presumably to examine the slaves in the compound. Ginger broke into a cold perspiration at the narrowness of their escape, if only for the time being. That the compound might be searched at this hour of the night was something even Biggles could hardly have foreseen. Nor could he have realised what effect the appearance of a strange aircraft would have on the enemy—but then, of course, he had been unaware that von Stalhein was in the picture, a circumstance that altered the entire situation. It was he who had sounded the alarm; and having come off second best to Biggles on so many occasions he was more than a little apprehensive, whatever he might say to the contrary. On his own statements he might almost be said to have developed a Biggles complex. Yet his reasoning had been sound enough, thought Ginger. His shrewd brain had, in fact, grasped the situation with uncanny accuracy; and this, for the intruders, was likely to have serious consequences. The enemy camp was now on the alert, and this would inevitably make the work of rescue more difficult. He wondered what Biggles' reactions would be.
He was soon to know. Again Biggles touched him on the arm and withdrew farther into the trees. "Listen." he said. "We've got to get cracking. This is our chance, while they're all busy in the compound. It will take them some time to get those exhausted slaves on their feet, and round them up for inspection. When the number is found to tally most of von Stalhein's associates will be satisfied, no doubt. But not von Stalhein. If he's got it into his head that we're in the country, and obviously he has, he'll pull every trick he knows to catch up with us."
"Imagine him being here," breathed Ginger.
"Yet why not?" returned Biggles. "This is just the sort of racket you'd expect to find him in. He had a big reputation in Germany at one time, and the people who are running this show, needing such a man, would soon get in touch with him. After all, w
hat can the wretched fellow do? He was a Nazi. If he returned to his own country he'd be tried by a denazification court and hanged, or at any rate sent to jail for life. So he's drifting about the world like a ship without a rudder. He's got to live somehow, and the fact that he's working for this bunch doesn't necessarily mean that he's in sympathy with them.
Judging from what he said just now he hasn't much time for them. He certainly said a mouthful—too much, perhaps, for he must have touched some of them on the raw, and they won't forget it. I'd say that to admit that he knew what he threw at them was indiscreet—considering the type of people he's working for. To give the devil his due, he'
s efficient. That's his trouble. Notice the way he worked out that I was on the job. He was right on the nail. But with some people efficiency doesn't always pay. Here we have a bunch of ambitious war-mongers, and as ambition goes hand in hand with vanity, the more often von Stalhein is right, and proves his employers wrong, the more they'll resent it. Instead of supporting him they'll oppose him, and that's where they'll come unstuck. It'
s an old story. But this is no time for philosophy. Thanks to von Stalhein we've collected a vital piece of information, anyway, a piece that Raymond will be glad to have. Let's get weaving. We've got to locate our men to-night; we may not get another chance."
Standing up, Biggles made a survey of what little could be seen of the enemy camp. The compound was out of sight, but sounds coming from its direction indicated that the examination of the slaves was proceeding. The group outside the door of the house went back inside, presumably to await the result.
Ginger, too, tried to probe the darkness around him. It was all very confusing. There were several huts deep in the trees, their position being revealed in many cases by lighted windows, which were only shaded from above. But there appeared to be no way of determining which particu lar hutment was the one they sought. It would, he thought, be safe to assume that the scientists would be housed in a building of some sort but that was all. He expressed his doubts.
Biggles agreed that it was difficult. "We shall just have to go from one to the other till we strike the right one," he said. "It's pretty certain that our men will be behind barbed wire.
That should be a guide. We haven't much time. We've got to be out of this before daylight."
With this decision Ginger was in complete agreement.
if— If
THE search began. In the darkness, and in the absence of any knowledge of the layout of the camp, it was a tedious, nerve-racking business, for while most of the Mongol troops had been concentrated in the region of the slave-yard there was still a number drifting
aimlessly, most of them the worse for drink. Fortunately they made a good deal of noise, quarrelling and singing, which announced their approach in ample time for cover to be taken. Nevertheless, there were several narrow escapes. One in particular turned Ginger's mouth dry with shock, as well as giving him a bruise on the shin. They were crossing a patch of the deep grass which occurred everywhere between the trees when he stumbled over an object which overturned with a jangle of glass. In trying to recover himself he trod on something soft and warm that lay near it. It was a nasty moment, for he knew that it could only be a human body. Spinning round prepared to fight he saw that it was one of the Mongolians, apparently asleep. It turned out that the man was in a drunken stupor, and although he stirred uneasily, muttering, he did not attempt to rise—which for him was just as well, for Biggles had whipped out his pistol, holding it by the muzzle ready to strike should the man open his mouth. The precaution was unnecessary. The Mongol slipped back into his besotted slumber. Biggles replaced his weapon with a shrug of contempt. Ginger, wiping the sweat of shock from his forehead, saw that the object over which he had tripped was a case of the now familiar vodka bottles. Two lay empty beside the intoxicated body. Biggles beckoned and they went on, leaving the sleeper to his drink-sodden dreams.
For an hour or more—Ginger lost count of time—they wandered about the camp, groping their way through trees, crawling through dry grass, creeping from hut to hut without getting even so much as a clue to guide them to their objective. There were well-used paths, carefully camouflaged where they crossed open spaces. Indeed, there was a maze of them, as there is bound to be in a camp of any size; but as these were being used by men moving about—men who, moreover, often carried torches—Biggles thought it advisable to keep clear of them. Those not covered by camouflage netting were concealed from overhead observation by the upper branches of the trees through which they ran, so it was easy to see why they had escaped notice when the Birada had made its reconnaissance. It was obvious that the camp had been established in the forest for that very purpose. It was for the same reason that the black fighter had not been spotted.
Biggles and Ginger, in the course of their wanderings, came upon it near the outer fringe of the trees. It was mounted on a catapult of obsolete but quite effective pattern, facing down a short clearing which ended in open ground. There was no guard. Biggles ran a professional eye over it, and hesitated as if he contemplated doing something, but presently he passed on without a word.
Soon afterwards, Ginger, who was walking with his hands held out in front of his face to protect his eyes from the ends of broken branches which could not be seen in the gloom, encountered barbed wire. How far it extended on either side he could not see, but behind it was a log hut of some length. One window, near the end, was lighted; and it may have been due to the light in his eyes that for a time he could see nothing else. Presently, by staring hard, he could just make out the shape of a much larger in the background, a building not less than forty yards long. Both buildings seemed to be in the same enclosure. The ground was deep in the usual dry grass. Midway between the two huts, and to one side, apparently set in the wire fence, was yet another building, but this was tiny compared with the two large ones. He thought he could just make out the shape of a man standing.by it as if it might have been a sentry outside a guardroom.
A soft hiss brought Biggles, who was slightly behind, to the spot. For several seconds they stood still side by side staring at what could dimly be seen behind the wire, for only the lighted window was distinct. By sheer concentration, after a little while Ginger could just discern what seemed to be a veranda running along the length of the nearer hut. At about the middle of this from time to time a pinpoint of light glowed to a bright orange. This puzzled him, for he could not think what it could be. It was too stationary to be a firefly. Closing his eyes for a moment to rest them he looked again, and thought he could see several vague figures in a curious reclining position. Then a match flared suddenly and he understood. The point of light was the glowing end of a cigarette.
Someone was there, resting and smoking. A moment later shoes scraped on a board floor. A door was opened. Light flooded out, revealing clearly everything within its radius of influence. A man moved until his silhouette stood out black against the lighted entrance. Softly through the still air came a voice. "Good night all," it said quietly, in English. The speaker went in, closing the door behind him. Darkness returned. But still a cigarette glowed.
Biggles' hand had closed over Ginger's arm. "Okay," he breathed. "This is it."
But Ginger was now looking at something else, something about twenty yards away along the line of the fence, a solid-looking object which he was sure had not been there a minute earlier. While he watched it, it moved, and grew more definite in outline.
He recognised it for a man walking slowly towards them, apparently along the outside of the wire. In an instant he had jerked Biggles' sleeve and was crouching back into the shadows behind them. Biggles followed. Whether or not he had seen the man approaching Ginger did not know, but there was no time to utter a warning. The man loomed up, a rifle on his shoulder. He walked straight past, and presently merged into the dark background.
Biggles waited for a good two minutes. Then he breathed: "The fence is patrolled, but I must try to contact Vale if he's her
e."
How he proposed doing this Ginger did not know, for the men on the veranda were a good twenty yards away, and to call would certainly attract the attention of the sentry.
True, the wire could be cut; but if the wire was closely patrolled, the severed strands would be noticed when daylight came; so if it should happen that immediate rescue was impossible they would have betrayed their presence in the camp for no purpose. In that case extra precautions against the escape of the prisoners would certainly be taken. And anyway, thought Ginger swiftly, there was no actual proof yet that the men behind the wire were those they sought. The English-speaking voice made it seem a fairly safe conclusion, but it was not absolutely definite. There might be other English-speaking people in the camp, and it was not the moment to take risks that a little patience would avoid. Thus thought Ginger as he waited to see what Biggles would do.
Biggles' method of attracting attention was simple and reasonably safe. If Vale was there, he would understand. If not, no harm would be done. In a soft whistle such as might have been made by a nightbird he sent out, in morse code, Vale's own initial call sign; the three Vees.
There was no response. The men on the veranda, who had started to talk in low tones, continued without pause, as if the signal, if it had been noticed, had conveyed nothing to them. There was just a chance, thought Ginger, with a twinge of disappointment, that Vale was not there. Or he might have been the man who had gone in. He might never have revealed his true identity to the others, or explained the significance of his initials, in which case the signal would pass without comment.
However, this was not the case. The men on the veranda were still talking, but suddenly a shadow loomed up so close to the wire that Ginger started back, thinking it was a sentry.
37 Biggles Gets His Men Page 9
